Throne Hunters Book 3, Chapter 18

Harald emerged onto the Copper platform to be met by a crowd of guards and officials. At first he thought they were there to arrest him. Had he done something wrong? Had they figured out his tactic on the 16th Level?

But no.

They were simply gaping at the six cloak-wrapped bundles of scales that Sam was standing possessively over.

“But how?” The lead guard, tall and gaunt, had pushed his helm back to expose his thinning hair and scratch at his scalp. “You were only gone below for six bells.”

Harald glanced around the Dungeon Plaza. It was early afternoon. A long Humble Petitioner’s line snaked around to the Iron Gate, and a few teams were waiting in line before the Copper. The sun blazed down, and the sounds of Flutic were vivid and chaotic all around them.

It felt blessedly real after the mysterious fog and endless nightmare of the 16th Level.

“Got lucky, I guess,” said Harald, moving over to Sam. “All good?”

“Sure. Help me carry these down to the table.”

Harald kept a wary eye on the guards as they moved the bundles to the taxation counter, where each was unwrapped and its bounty poured into great bins for counting and sorting.

“This is going to take a while,” said the lead taxation officer, staring at the brimming bin and the other bundles awaiting their turn. “But I’m not complaining.”

The scales were a mixture of Silver Starbursts with the occasional Golden Dawn thrown in, no doubt culled from the corpses of the fallen bosses. The guards stood around for a bit, simply staring, but counting scales was dull work, and eventually they wandered back to their posts.

Harald fought to remain focused, but Sam was completely alert. She watched as each scale was counted and marked off, and by the time the first bundle was finished she looked back at Harald with a grin.

“That’s 278 Silvers and 15 Golden Dawns,” she said. “First of six.”

Harald grinned back. “Can we convince them to take less?”

“Unlikely,” said Sam, turning back as the second cloak was unwrapped upon the table.

All told it took a full bell before their wealth was counted. Scales sorted, the amounts added up, so that when at last all was done the grand total could be announced: 2,311 Silver Starbursts, and 48 Golden Dawns. Of that amount 40% went to the Mining Consortium, leaving Harald and Sam with the equivalent of 16,746 Copper Crescents.

They split the scales between them, hailed a carriage, and rode back to Flutic in safety. Sam’s head was lolling against the door, but as tired as Harald was he couldn’t close his eyes.

His half amounted to 8 Aurora Veils in one day’s raiding.

Incredible.

Lady Sonora needed 4 Aurora Veils a month to maintain her current lifestyle. In six bells he’d made enough to keep her going for the next two months. Or, if she decided to really ramp things up and reclaim her fallen glory, just over a full month of everything she could possibly desire.

Full staff, a rich menu, scale lanterns, repaired gardens, the works.

And if she wanted to fix up the entire manor and return it to its former glory? She’d said 5 Zeniths. So four more raids like this, and she could restore Sonora Manor to its resplendent self.

And her entire debt? 4 Whispers. Which would obviously require more time - that would be 40 Zeniths, so a good sixty more raids on the 16th Level.

Incredible.

Harald stared at the sacks of scales between their feet in the hired carriage. In one month he could pay off the entire debt that House Sonora had accumulated over the course of the past decade.

Gazing out into the near empty streets, he felt his wonder and excitement curdle at the manner they were acquiring this wealth. He could practically hear Wirmas’ sneering voice calling him Praetor.

But still. As far as expeditions went, this was an incredibly lucrative one. And if he didn’t devote himself completely to paying off House Sonora’s debts, he could reach his third Throne after a month’s such ventures.

Anything suddenly felt possible.

What an incredibly potent combination, the amulet and Wirmas. What were the odds that he’d acquire them in such short order?

Huh.

Harald tongued the inside of his cheek. The odds had to be astronomically small unless someone else got involved.

Harald glanced over at Sam again. That would have been a very different raid without her. There was no saying what his bloodlust might have caused him to do. To what extremes he might have gone.

Almost as if someone had crafted that potential for devolution on purpose.

Harald mused on that matter a little longer, but then turned his thoughts back to the sacks of scales and took solace in the good they would soon do.

They arrived at Sonora Manor just after the Fourth afternoon Bell. Bosworth opened the gate when Harald announced himself, salute crisp, nearly violent, and when they pulled up before the manor Harald paid the driver, then hauled the scale sacks down onto the drive.

Sam leaped down beside him. “I think I’m just going to absorb them all,” she grinned. “I mean, why not? What’s the point of putting them in a bank? Think I can borrow a guest room to do so in peace?”

“Of course,” said Harald, grinning right back. “You more than earned this. I’ve got to - ah. Rivik!”

The head servant had appeared, but instead of uttering some snide, genteel remark, he was boggling at the sight of the hempen sacks.

“Are those… Master Darrowdelve, tell me true: are those full of… scales?”

“What, these?” Harald pretended to be surprised at the sacks about his legs. “Oh, yes! Is the countess busy? I thought she might like to see what House Sonora just earned.”

“I…” Rivik tried to compose himself, and failed. He took a moment to dry swallow, then nodded, face pale. “I’ll, ah, send word. She’ll, I mean, but of course. Do you…?”

Harald laughed. “I’ll carry them in. No worries.”

Rivik nodded hurriedly and all but ran back into the manor.

Sam laughed. “This almost makes up for the horrific way we acquired them.” She grabbed two sacks and began marching up the steps. “Right?”

“Almost,” he agreed uncertainly. “Lots for us to discuss, for sure.”

He grabbed his own bags of scales, and by the time he’d hauled them inside, he heard the rapid sound of shoes upon the marble floor, and turned to see the countess slowing down as she saw the sacks of scales.

“My lady,” said Harald, all too delighted to bow down low. “I am returned. And I, well, we, had a modicum of success. I think House Sonora’s fortunes are looking up.”

“I… yes.” The countess stared for only a moment before composing herself, but her smile was too warm to be considered anything but genuine. “By the angels, Harald. I really think they are.”

*

Harald helped Rivik carry the scales into the manor’s safe room, which in truth was little more than a bare closet behind an iron door. Three chests were set against the far wall, of which only one was locked. Rivik was positively vibrating with zeal, and took up an ancient ledger in which he set about marking the income as he counted out the scales.

Harald, content to leave him to it, paused in the doorway. “What’s in that one chest?”

“Hmm?” Rivik had been in the midst of calculating a sum, but scowled as he lost his numbers and glanced at Harald. “Ah. Yes. That’s where we’ve placed that… helm.” Of yours, Harald heard the man almost say. “Until we can think of a better way to dispose of it.”

Harald nodded mutely. He could almost sense the baleful energy radiating from the locked chest. With a shiver, he left Rivik with the accounting and made his way to the dining room as hunger caused his guts to growl.

Nessa was already seated at the table, along with Vic, Sam, and Kársek. She looked terrible, her skin sallow, her eyes ringed in purple, her hair lank and lusterless. But she was there, and as Harald sat down across from her she grimaced at him before taking a sip of her coffee.

“Seventeen thousand scales?” Vic clapped a hand to his brow. “Harald! Astounding! Astonishing! Insert another articulate expression of amazement!”

“Vic’s become fixated,” said Sam wryly, then leaned to one side to smile at a servant who set a bowl of soup before her. “And seems to insist on forgetting half that haul was mine.”

“It wasn’t a bad haul, everything considered,” allowed Harald, smiling politely as the beef stew was set before him. “Kársek. Nessa.”

Kársek raised his mug in salute. Nessa somehow settled even deeper into her chair.

“Not bad? I love the sound of that, because it implies greater excesses. Now, Harry, Sam tells me the whole venture ended on a solemn, possibly even somber note. That somehow the obscene amount of scales you all wrested from the depths of the dungeon didn’t cheer you up? I’m mystified. Especially as you don’t seem all that melancholic now.”

Harald stirred the stew. “You know, Vic, you should have been a Seraphite.”

Vic’s smile froze. “Come again?”

“Nothing animates you more than wealth, and the Fallen Angel is wealth incarnate, right? Her remains are literally scales. As a Seraphite you could have spent all your time worshipping her.”

“Except Seraphites worship from afar, darling.” Vic’s grin turned wicked. “I am much more of an up-close-and-personal kind of adherent. But please, I loathe speaking about myself when there are tens of thousands of scales to talk about instead.”

“Countess Sonora’s scales,” said Harald. “I agreed to make the last delve in her name.”

“And I’ve already tried to explain it to him,” said Sam. “Wirmas, the slaughter, how dreadful it all was, but he’s being obstinate.”

“Not obstinate. Practical. Pragmatic. A scale is a scale is a scale, and you both managed a terrific coup. How am I not supposed to be ecstatic?”

“Vic,” said Harald carefully. “How much coffee have you had?”

“Harald. Harry. Sir Darrowdelve.” Vic raised both brows. “Help me understand your apparent reluctance to do what you did this morning forevermore.”

Harald felt his appetite leaving him. “It’s as Sam said. Wirmas is…”

“A bastard?” prompted Vic. “A sneering prick who lives only to ruin parties and make children feel bad about themselves?”

“That, but there’s something more. Doesn’t it occur to you that it’s a terrific coincidence that I should find first the amulet, and then Wirmas? And that Wirmas is… I don’t know. Working as hard as he can to make me feel as if I’m complicit in something sordid? Like a slaver, or a monster. Almost as if he were tempting me down a dark path?”

Nessa roused herself. “I thought Vorakhar wasn’t allowed to interfere until you bested Thracos.”

“This feels pretty indirect. And he’s not gifted me with anything that will tip the odds of our duel. But still. I sense his hand behind this combination.”

“Then we keep Sam with you at all times, and allow her Beacon of Hope to safeguard you from nefarious temptation. Right? And think: you’re in dire need of acquiring a troll wand from the 18th Level. And must go alone, correct? With only your Artifacts and Servitors and their personal armies at hand?”

Harald nodded reluctantly. “That’s true. Having a hundred reavers at hand would make all the difference on the 18th.”

“So relax!” Vic grinned. “I can handle Wirmas. If that hobgoblin thinks he can sour my mood with some mordant witticisms, he’s got another think coming.”

“Yes, but.” Sam glanced at Harald beseechingly.

“It felt…” Harald groped for the right words. “Seeing the hobgoblins slaughtered… by their own kind…”

Nessa sipped her coffee and then set it aside. “Don’t worry. As strategies go, it can’t last. You know about the Extraction League from, I don’t know, two or so centuries ago?”

“Yes,” said Sam brightly. “They -”

“Shh,” said Nessa, dark gaze leveled on Harald. “I asked him.”

Sam deflated.

“No,” said Harald. “Extraction League?”

“A movement on the part of the grandees back in the day. They wanted to optimize scale extraction, so they joined their raiders into a small army, hired hundreds of mercenaries, and invaded the dungeon.”

“Oh,” said Harald, “no, I mean, vaguely. What happened?”

“They were successful, at first. They established outposts on the 16th through the 20th Levels. Had supplies ferried in, construction equipment, stuff with which to make secure bases of operation. Masons, carpenters. The idea was to establish a permanent presence and farm the monsters. By never leaving, the levels were fixed in formation, and thus could be mapped. At its height, I think the League had several thousand soldiers employed, plus as many workers. Records show they were extracting five Horizon’s Whispers per day.”

“And?” Vic leaned forward. “Darling, we’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Other shoe to drop?” asked Kársek. “What shoe?”

Vic waved a hand dismissively.

“The Fallen Angel reacted,” said Nessa. “The League forgot that she was no silver mine. That was when the first Shuddering took place. Everyone on the 17th Level died, just snuffed out like that.” She snapped her fingers. “And the monsters on the other floors began to appear in such numbers that the outposts were flooded. Thousands died.”

“And the outposts?” asked Harald.

“Disappeared. When raiders descended next they found all traces gone. My point being, nothing happens for long in the dungeon without the Fallen Angel’s permission. If you’re not meant to raise armies of empowered hobgoblins and massacre the residents of the 16th Level, then she won’t tolerate it for long.”

“But in this case we’re combining an Artifact and Servitor,” said Sam. “That’s different.”

“True,” allowed Nessa, closing her eyes as if drained. “But she may still grow displeased. Do what you will, Harald. The Fallen Angel will let you know if you trespass.”

“By killing us all?” Vic made a face. “That’s a terrible way to check someone’s limits. But regardless, at the very least Harald needs his shaman wand. And don’t forget, you’re now juggling multiple obligations. To your own growth, to our crew, and now to Countess Sonora. You need to maximize scale income, or you’ll find your progress stalled out completely.”

“True,” said Harald. “And that’s what I wanted to discuss with you all. Vic, Nessa, you already work in a semi-formal capacity for the countess. I’m now sworn to her household. Sam and Kársek aren’t interested in swearing any further oaths. Our loyalties have grown complex, but we all want to continue growing, leveling, and Ascending more Thrones. Which means figuring out how we can accommodate all of our responsibilities without neglecting any of them.”

“I merely need to continue entering the dungeon to grow,” rumbled Kársek. “Power is my only desire, so that I may prove of consequence when an accounting is made due.”

“We gave up nearly half our income to the city,” said Sam. “We need to start issuing crew payments within the dungeon proper to avoid taxation.”

“Which is an even stronger argument for utilizing Wirmas,” said Vic. “Our greatest limitation is time. Many obligations, so few bells in the day. If we can make our scale runs more lucrative, we’ll have more time to dedicate to leveling and working together as the Throne Hunters.”

“Correct,” said Nessa, eyes still closed. “If Harald’s to have any hope of besting Thracos, he needs to prioritize leveling above all else. Making the countess wealthy won’t mean anything if he’s slaughtered in a few weeks’ time.”

“Right,” said Harald, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I see your point. I still hold that Wirmas is a trap set by Vorakhar, but we can use him intelligently to get scales and avoid him influencing me by keeping Sam close.”

“Fine.” Vic smiled brightly. “I don’t care what the setup is as long as we extract incalculable wealth every time we descend. How about the following? We delve tonight. I’ll take Wirmas in hand, and we’ll all push down to the 17th Level. See how we fare, and evaluate if it feels safe for you to take your little army down to the 18th.”

“I’ll pass,” said Nessa, and met Harald’s gaze with a flat stare. “Seeing as this isn’t an official crew run. I’ll focus on getting as much watery gruel into my system as I can so as to be ready for our next real raid when it comes.”

“Fine,” said Harald, trying to keep his disappointment from his tone. “We should be safe enough with a hundred reavers and Kársek’s Rune.”

“And my wit,” protested Vic.

“Right,” said Harald wryly. “And that.”

“Excellent.” Vic looked around the gathering with a bright smile. “Then I think we’re set. How shall we spend the next few hours? Nessa? Up for a ten-mile run?”

“Go to hell and die,” she muttered.

“Oh no, feeling peaky?” Vic frowned with mock concern. “Want to go lie down? I’ll fetch a cool towel for your brow.”

“Go to hell but don’t die,” said Nessa. “Instead, just persist there forever in eternal torment.”

“Good, she’s not lost all her native wit.” Vic took a large bite out of his toast. “I’ll go fetch my gear and meet you at the Copper Gate in a couple of bells’ time. If we’re all rested up and ready, we can head down from there.” He bounced to his feet, beamed, and strode out of the dining room.

“I hate Vic when he’s happy,” whispered Nessa.

“Harald?” Sam waited until he looked her way. “You’re good with this? Using Wirmas again?”

“At least one more run.” Harald held her gaze. “If we’re all together, I don’t think it’s as dangerous.”

“I won’t be on the 18th with you,” said Sam softly.

“But now I’m on my guard. It’ll be fine. And if you really think it’s a bad idea once we reached the well to the 18th Level? I won’t go. It’ll be your call.”

“You mean that?” asked Sam.

“You know I do.”

“All right then.” She smiled weakly. “Let’s go collect another fortune.”

*

They met once more in the Dungeon Plaza. Thin clouds scudded overhead like torn strips of pale cloth, and the air was cold and bracing. The Plaza was alive with activity, dozens of raiding crews lined up at the Copper and Silver Gates, while the Petitioner’s line wrapped around the perimeter, the hopeful dregs fending off the hordes of vendors who sought to alleviate their boredom by parting them with their precious few scales.

Vic was already by the Copper Gate, clad in a fresh suit of studded leather armor dyed in alternating shades of rose and brown, and at the sight of them he let out a piercing whistle between two fingers and gave them an exuberant wave.

“He’s incredible,” muttered Sam, hitching her pack. “I used to think everybody liked wealth, but then I met Vic.”

“He does like scales,” agreed Kársek, passing his hand over his short beard. “One might think he’s attempting to compensate for deficiencies elsewhere.”

Harald laughed. “He’s been open about his rough upbringing. Some folks simply equate wealth with being able to control their lives, I guess. Vic? I think he just likes everything about being rich.”

Vic had been saving a spot at the head of the line, and they stepped in alongside him. Harald resisted the urge to smile apologetically at the crew behind, and was saved from their ornery stares by having to step up and be processed by the guards.

Nobody he knew was on duty, but the process was the same, and in short order the four of them were before the rotating Dungeon Portal, gazing up at its alien facets and spinning, erratic movements.

“To the 16th!” cried Vic, and thrust a Silver and six Coppers into the air.

The polyhedron ceased spinning, oriented on them, and then one of its triangular faces hollowed out. Vic led the way, rapier at the ready, and Harald followed.

There was as always that moment of dislocation, the sensation of passing through the abyss that Harald now found comforting, and then they emerged onto a rough ledge on the 16th, the air as baleful and smoldering green as ever, the smell thick and noxious, the world become nothing more than an endless array of moldering keeps and castle walls, with endless chasms beneath the many bridges yawning wide below.

“All right, we’re here.” Harald glanced around, checking for patrols. “What’s your plan for dealing with Wirmas?”

Vic moved to crouch in the lee of a rubbled wall, hidden in the shadows, and the others joined him there to gaze out over the ruinous landscape.

“Leave it to Uncle Vic,” said Vic, drawing forth The Point.

“I’m not going to call you Uncle Vic.”

“Then leave it to the magisterial, the magical, the munificent and grandiloquent Master Vic.” His friend grinned. “That better?”

“The angels damn it,” muttered Harald as Sam shook her head in despair, and reached deep into his Cosmos to summon forth the hobgoblin boss.

Who appeared before them in a shaft of shuddering smoke. Slender and hunched, the hobgoblin twisted about rapidly, taking in the environs, then grinned his hagfish smile, and bowed low to where Harald crouched.

“Do we go at it again, Praetor-mine?” The smile became a sneer. “You crave more bloodshed? More harvesting of threshed bodily grain?”

“Come over here,” said Vic, beckoning with one hand. “Harald told me he worked your fingers to the bone during the last go-round. Poor Wirmas. Forced to dance and leap like a mad little puppet. But here’s the thing, darling. Can I call you darling?”

Wirmas’ lip writhed back from his fangs.

“Good. Here’s the thing, darling. You are a puppet. You know this. I know this. Harald’s trying to remember. But you are his Servitor, and as such, you need to behave.”

“I have in no way disobeyed him in any particular way.”

“Not so much, but between you and me, we both know you’re a conniving little shit, angling for emotional abuse where and when you can. Little mind games. You can tell Harald’s a soft touch, just as I did when I first saw him dancing alone in that bar one night, a cherubic fourteen-year-old, trying so damned hard to look mysterious and alluring. Aw, you remember that, Harry? That phase of yours?”

“Vic,” protested Sam. “Stay focused.”

“Yes. Right. My point is this, Wirmas. You’re to keep your running commentary to yourself. There’s no room here for two big-mouthed blowhards, and since I plan to hog all the witty comments, you’ll keep your trap shut.”

Wirmas glanced to Harald, who nodded.

“We don’t care what you think,” whispered Vic, leaning in close. “We know you’re not real. We just need you to play your part, and if you can’t do it without piteous whining, we’ll sell your Servitor Crystal to the dwarves who’ll smelt it down for its magical properties, and your mind, such as it is, will vanish. We clear?”

Wirmas went to respond but Vic activated The Point whose blade lengthened dramatically an inch above the hobgoblin’s shoulder, causing Wirmas to flinch.

“Remember? No commentary. Only speak when you’re addressing the hobgoblins. When you’re recruiting them or relaying Harald’s orders. And if I detect a note of smug maliciousness while you’re doing so? I’ll activate The Point up your ass so that you spend the rest of this level strutting about with a metallic cock sticking several yards ahead of you. Yes?”

Wirmas nodded hurriedly.

Vic winked at Harald and patted Wirmas on the head. “Good. Now, rest time is over. Time for us to find ourselves a little army. We’re heading down to the 18th Level, so let’s get to it.”

Wirmas scrambled to his feet and backed away from Vic, his pale face thunderous with fury, but then he glanced at Harald and visibly forced his anger down. Went to speak, caught himself, and instead went for a mocking bow.

The Point burst forth, cutting him off before he could complete the gesture by sliding just under his face.

“None of that, either,” drawled Vic, sounding bored. “I’m already tired of your insincere ways. Show us your anger, darling, show us your sullen resentment, but don’t waste our time with mordant impersonations of an obedient slave. You’re not a good enough actor.”

Wirmas straightened again, and this time there was murder in his sole remaining eye.

“Let’s go,” said Harald quietly.

Wirmas glanced back and forth at their little group, then gave a curt nod and led the way, prowling forward along the rough ledge to an arching bridge that spanned the chasm before them.

“There,” said Vic, tapping his shoulder with the retracted Point, expression smug. “Wirmas may think himself a talented prick, but he’s an innocent when it comes to being a professional asshole. I think we’re going to do just fine.”

Kársek shook his head ruefully and shifted his war hammer onto the other shoulder. Harald summoned the Goldchops, their arrival comforting him more than he wanted to admit, and fell in step with Sam, whose Beacon washed out over him, erasing his fears and doubts and petty resentments.

Vic brought up the rear, humming contentedly as they followed Wirmas toward the bridge.

The hobgoblin marched, and only once did he look back. And in his blue eye Harald saw seething fury and murderous resentment.

But he was constrained by his nature, his essence that of a Servitor, and he could do nothing but obey.

So the hobgoblin looked ahead once more, and led them deeper into the mists.